


Winters in Kirkwall

by sqquares



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:01:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23701240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sqquares/pseuds/sqquares
Summary: The snow did not cease its onslaught for a full week. Fenris woke up cursing the white Fereldan shit falling from the sky — for everything south of Tevinter, to him, was Ferelden — and made his way hastily towards the Hanged Man, with the fires that he did not need to light himself, and wine that he did not have to bring up from the damp cellar.A quick fic about just how damn insufferable the winters in Kirkwall are, and how certain elves and cheeky mages start thinking of each other a bit differently than before.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 52





	Winters in Kirkwall

The main difference between mages and the "mundanes" — as they so aptly called all others as if it was something to be ashamed of — was, Fenris decided, that the mages took everything as a challenge. Whether it was Hawke deciding that the four of them could try and kill a blighted high dragon in the Bone Pit, or Merrill considering the stupid magic mirror issue her  _ responsibility _ as if the Arlathan elves are to come back one day and gently scorn her that she didn't fix their bauble, the lack of that voice that says "Stop now while you're ahead" at the back of their heads just didn't appear to exist. Not that he'd have wanted a voice in a mage's head to exist, as it was likely it'd be a blasted demon.

Just as Isabela's stupid friend fiction, that they all read apart from him — although if he was of a mind he'd conclude that the reason was that he can't, well, read, and he can't very well ask Varric to read it out loud to him, what with all the "saucy bits" that Merrill would giggle about occasionally — there were certain things, dynamics within their merry band of misfits, that Fenris was excluded from. In-jokes, bits of personal history not everyone was privy to, apparent occasional dalliances that only Varric and Hawke hinted at and Carver and Merrill blushed uncontrollably about, were all things that they didn't speak about in front of Fenris. He didn't mind much. His mind was consumed with revenge, fury, despair, and an occasional bottle — or three — of Tevinter wine, and he was content with that, at least until an opportunity to be rid of the first three presented itself.

It just so happened that on a cloudy day of Wintermere, when everything but Darktown was buried in a couple of feet thick snow, and "business", as Hawke called it, was slow, the company gathered in the Hanged Man for drinks and Varric's favourite Wicked Grace. Fenris entered the tavern late, cursing his decision to brave the snows barefoot (although Merrill was there in time, whether because the Alienage was closer to the gathering spot, or because she slew a hare and bled it, melting the snow around her so as not to soil her own bare feet, he would never know). They were laughing, and then promptly stopped when he entered. Not an unusual occurrence, as Varric was fond of saying that his dourness was contagious and in time he'd started to believe it (and revel in it, at least a little). A dozen games of Wicked Grace were played that day, the abomination losing all but his smallclothes, and then a promise to pay Isabela back with "tickles" and a wiggle of fingers was exchanged, and all was well.

The next day was much the same, and loathe to spend the entire day in the too dark and entirely too cold for comfort mansion, Fenris put on a pair of boots Sebastian gifted him "for those treks around Sundermount" and made his way to the tavern. Again it seemed that most people had already been there for hours; indeed it seemed some of them hadn't even left since the previous day. Giggles and whispers between the always too-happy-to-tease Isabela and Merrill who was too far gone in the piss that passed for ale in the Hanged Man hinted at a wager within the inner circle of the group — which he did not consider himself a part of and therefore did not mind the secrecy. Here and there, the words "week’s wager" were mentioned but he paid them little mind. It was likely Isabela was planning to steal Bianca from under Varric's pillow just for the fun of it, or they were betting on who is going to be the first to cross Aveline's tolerance threshold for teasing, as the stern guardsman and Donnic had finally announced their engagement. It was time to rid the insufferable mage of all his coin, and he did not plan to take late payment in "tickles", and this malicious intent only cemented itself as Anders plopped himself right next to him on his favourite bench in the darkest corner of the tavern.

It seemed at first that the mage was trying to take a peek at his cards, which would not do, so he retreated deeper into the shadows and looked at everyone over the edge of his hand. This did not stop the mage. He stole glances here and there, a stupid, all-too-knowing — and what in Maker's name did  _ he _ know that Fenris didn't?! — smile touching his lips on occasion. When he laughed with the others — and he laughed much more than usual — the last exhale of air would always be aimed towards Fenris, as the mage tucked his hair, overly long and ready for shearing, behind his ear. Banter was exchanged. Wine was brought to the table in bony, switch-scarred hands, and only after a surprised beat did Fenris realise it was brought for  _ him _ . An elbow nudge as a common joke was shared earned a shove in retaliation. The abomination was  _ drunk _ . Fenris wondered if that quieted the demon in his head, the familiar pinpricks of blue in the mage's dull brown eyes all but gone. He'd lost the game and ended up owing ten coppers to the smug apostate at some point in his confusion.

The rest of the week passed in a similar fashion, with the mage being a touch too comfortable at the boundary of Fenris's personal space, seemingly unafraid of the fact that an armoured hand could crush the heart within his chest in a blink of an eye. Not that he would do it, really. Hawke was all too fond of the apostate, showering him with praise about his utterly perverse views on mage freedom, although it was hardly surprising seeing as Hawke was a mage, too. Not one familiar with the apparent "abuse" in the circles, which were undoubtedly just ranting of a spoiled caged bird who knows nothing of true slavery and subjugation, but a mage nonetheless. Anders kept his mouth shut about that, thankfully. No mention of templars or solitary confinement (which Fenris had no doubt in his mind he would have  _ enjoyed _ if he were in his place, as it would at least get him away from all the other mages). Just thin smiles, often turned — addressed? — to Fenris, and an occasional accidental touch of the back of the hand when they were both reaching for their drink at the same time.

Fenris was musing on the sudden change in the behaviour of his... associate when his train of thought was interrupted by Anders himself. A question, judging by the raised eyebrow, intonation of the sentence that he did not hear but for its tone, and that smile, again as if he _ knows _ something. He raised his own eyebrow to ask for a repeat of the question.

"Did you do something to your hair?"

Suddenly self-aware, Fenris looked at the fringe covering his field of view, cross-eyed for a second; this seemed to amuse the mage, as he let out a soft chuckle. Maker, but his face is too close. Half an inch closer and he'll lose an eye. He can still do magic with one eye.

"What's it to you, mage."

Not a question, a statement — and gruffer, somehow, than intended. Undeterred, the mage retorted with "maybe you washed it."

His wit was sharper when he was drunk — or maybe he just didn't have the usual self-control. This was a familiar rhythm of petty insults that grew endearing in the past week, as none of the mage's jabs had any heat behind them. Fenris had the distinct feeling that he was being mocked, but the face across from his was open, honest.  _ Complacency is dangerous. He is an abomination. _ The voice at the back of his head, that Fenris distinctly did  _ not _ lack, not being a mage and all, was shouting, but the drumming of his heart in his head, riled up and slighted even in jest like this, was louder. It was only fair that he pay back in kind.

"I am not the one skulking around Darktown, taking a bath once a month and not cutting my hair for  _ years _ ." And with that he took a strand of Anders's hair in his hand, to prove the point. "If you must know, I cropped it earlier today. The fringe was too long."

"It suits you."

The mage stated it matter-of-factly, but it felt like a slap. Was that a  _ compliment _ ? Anders did not try to one-up his hygiene accusations or make excuses for the length of his own hair. Just a compliment, a short smile, and he was laughing with Hawke again. Fenris closed his mouth after a second, realising how ridiculous he must be looking, slack-jawed and surprised. No more words were exchanged that night, and Fenris soon stood up to leave, the mage rising as well, claiming a patient with chokedamp needs another healing session early the next day. Leaving the inn, the mage bid him good night, something they've never done in all the years they've known — and hated — each other.

Fenris felt strange. Hawke made sure to let him know his presence was desired, appreciated even, and no other member of their group was rude to him, some even going out of their way to coddle him — Sebastian first and foremost, whose open admiration made Fenris uncomfortable more often than not. Anders was different. He was stuck in his (or his demon's) opinions, and would not budge no matter how many times Fenris tried to prove that magic is, in fact, dangerous, and they both were living proof of that danger. In their discussions, he was thrashing, ranting, biting in his insults and trying to put any one of Fenris's arguments down, even if he agreed with some of them if they were presented by Hawke, or Aveline, or Varric, or even Merrill, who was usually another target for his hatred. Yet since the snows enveloped the city, Anders seemed gentler, less spiteful. Maybe the apparent calm and lack of conflict made his demon take a proverbial nap. Maybe this was the Anders that Isabela spoke of, wistfully, in relation to some place called the "Pearl" and someone nicknamed "sparkle-fingers".

He expected that this temporary truce would fall apart with the first talk of another abomination slain in the Gallows, or another group of Tevinter slavers daring to step foot into the city; but for now, Fenris decided to be content with the mage's apparently good-natured jabs and sudden familiarity and closeness. Maybe he would snap out of it if even the person who hates him the most in the world — and with a grimace, Fenris decided he did not, in fact, hate him at all — was at least a bit supportive, in his own way. Determined to think of himself as the Better person of the two, Fenris made a conscious decision to not be as rude to Anders the next day as he usually was.

The snow did not cease its onslaught for a full week. Fenris woke up cursing the white Fereldan shit falling from the sky — for everything south of Tevinter, to him, was Ferelden — and made his way hastily towards the Hanged Man, with the fires that he did not need to light himself, and wine that he did not have to bring up from the damp cellar (and in the past week it was brought to the table for him by Anders; he'd even started ordering drinks from him when he saw him get up to grab another ale). His mood turned as soon as he entered the tavern. Anders was there already — wasn't he supposed to be healing the chokedamp? — and Fenris smiled at him first, then decided that that amount of friendliness is undesirable, even if he realised that he did not smile consciously. He sat next to the mage, unprompted, the rest of the party for some reason leaving the spot open even if it was the most comfortable bench, a favourite of both Isabela and Varric.

Cards were already on the table, and the mage mentioned that he anticipated losing his smallclothes to Fenris, with a wiggle of his eyebrows and a sly smile. He was turning into Isabela. Small wonder, as they seemed to have known each other long before the whole Justice business and were apparently close due to similarities in that particular flirting department. Fenris brushed it off mentally and made a small approving sound as if to say he was planning on it. Anders's smile turned into a grin.

The snow started again — Maker truly turned his back on his children, Fenris concluded, if he decided to punish them in this manner. Everyone was loathe to leave the Hanged Man, even as the candles burned to the stump and were replaced once, then for the second time. Anders made jabs here and there, about Fenris's hair again, which earned him an approving smile, about his markings, which made Fenris want to retort, but he eventually decided not to. It was in good humour, after all. Isabela acted drunk, even if she wasn't, and teased about the extent to which the markings envelop his body, and Anders made a comment about seeing most of them, having treated Fenris's wounds countless times. Then the party turned a bit quiet and everyone leaned back into their chairs, seemingly pondering the mysteries of the universe at odd hours of the night, as one usually does. Anders leaned over Fenris.

Suddenly, he wasn't very friendly. But where Fenris's instincts would've screamed  _ danger _ and  _ magic _ and  _ abomination _ only a week ago, here was something different, gentle. Crow's feet around the mage's eyes were sharp, denoting a smile somewhere below Fenris's field of view, because all there  _ was  _ in his field of view were eyes, playful and _ warm  _ and without even a hint of blue. Anders murmured something about a kiss, and with a hard swallow and a quick, almost-not-there nod, Fenris said  _ yes _ .

A pair of fingertips pressed at his pulse points, stubble scratched the markings on his chin, and little remained but the stench of cheap ale in the narrow gap between them. Clumsy, drunk, and now past the point of no return, their noses misaligned, the mage’s too long, the bridge of his own too flat. Teeth clashed, mouths distinctly incompatible, lips caught in between. A sharp tug as the point of his gauntlet caught in Anders’s hair — only then did Fenris realize that he was holding the mage’s face in his own hands in return. Did his head swim from the wine or did the mage’s incisor catch his lip  _ just so _ ?

And the lyrium sang.

Magic was pain. It was searing, and bloodied, and cruel, and the markings only heightened that, the otherness. Magic was not of this world, and Fenris knew it better than most.

The spirit was greedy, latching onto the vein, its lifeline and connection to the Fade - craving not to return to its world, but to pull it over, through him, his body, his brands. Yet it was all overshadowed by the moment of dissonance, a different chorus. Anders did what he did best, even this stupid and this impulsive and  _ this close _ \- he was healing, and the song was entirely different than what Fenris was used to.

Just as quickly as it started, it stopped, and the ale-breath was the only thing that remained, a sudden sharp intake of cold air startling Fenris into opening his eyes - were they closed this whole time? It was only then that he remembered that they were in the Hanged Man. And  _ everyone  _ was watching them. Varric’s mouth was slightly agape. Merrill was smirking. Isabela’s chin was nestled on top of a fist, the pirate clearly enjoying the show, as she (and Varric) would undoubtedly call the display in the days to come. Carver and Aveline had no patience for fool mages or startled elves, clearly — turned away from the scene but their necks betraying the blushing. Hawke was… nowhere to be seen. And the mage—

The mage was grinning, his face closer than it’s ever been to his own — well, not counting the past minute — hour — eon — and what transpired within it. The gauntlet was wrapped around the heart—

“I told you I could do it in under a week!”

— and promptly squeezed.

Fenris was on his feet and out of the tavern in seconds.

**Author's Note:**

> I have some ideas on how to continue the story - spoilers, it'd contain a lot of angst - would you like to read more? I'd love to hear what you think!


End file.
